I’m sure most kids would have thought it was cool. To me, it was just an embarrassment. I didn’t tell anyone that I was Patsy O’Connor’s only son because I didn’t want anyone to know. I would have preferred to fight my own battles in anonymity than to be known as “Patsy O’Connor’s boy”, the little Irish gangster of Wilford Brimley Middle School.
I’d never experienced the notorious side of Patsy O’Connor. He was never anything but warm and kind to me. I was the apple of his eye and I thought he hung the moon. Period. Of course, I had no way of knowing back then that after throwing the ball in the backyard with me he’d have to rush off to service his mistress or break some poor schmuck’s arm for not paying back money he’d been lent or paying for protection he’d been offered.
I didn’t know exactly what my dad did for a living until I was in my teens, when my best pal Joey Boots worked up the nerve to ask what my dad did for a living.
“He’s in import/export,” I said without having a clue what that even meant. We were probably ten or eleven, sitting on the stoop eating ice cream to battle the summer heat.
“My dad says your dad is a gangster,” Joey said. “I mean, don’t tell your dad that my dad said that.” He paused with tears suddenly filling his eyes.” I wouldn’t want my dad to disappear or anything.”
I remember frowning at him like he was a dog with two heads. The ice cream dripped down my knuckles because I wasn’t eating it fast enough. I scowled at him.
“What are you talking about?”
Joey looked left and right, then over his shoulder at his front door. “My dad said there was a story in the paper about your dad being arrested for something, but he didn’t say what.”
“That’s bullshit,” I said angrily. I had no idea if he was lying or not. I wasn’t allowed to read the papers or watch the news. I had never wondered why until that moment. I must have given him a hard look because I remember the blood draining from his face as the vanilla ice cream ran down his chin.
“Hey, you’re right,” he said. “I was just messing with you. Come on, I’ll buy us another ice cream.”
When I asked my mom what dad did for a living she said to go ask him. When I asked him, he just shrugged and said, “Whatever the fuck it takes to put food on the table.”
Okay, I know what you’re thinking. How could I not know that my dad was the head of a notorious Irish gang?
One word: denial.
Of course, I knew it, but I refused to believe it. To me, he was just Patsy O’Connor, the best dad in the world. I knew there was something more to his personality, something a little dark and mysterious, but I refused to speculate on what that might be.
It wasn’t until years later, after the dawn of the internet when I was probably sixteen or seventeen years old that I worked up the nerve to type “Patrick Patsy O’Connor” into a Yahoo search bar.
According to Yahoo, my father was a notorious (damn that word) Irish gangster who had spent most of his teenage years in detention centers because he couldn’t stay out of trouble and a good bit of his adult life in prison for the same reason. His crimes ranged from extortion, burglary, assault and battery, racketeering, and loan sharking. There was no mention of drugs and prostitution, so I guess he had to draw the line somewhere.
I left for college at eighteen and came home after getting my law degree at twenty-four. My plan was to go to work for a big firm and make as much money as possible and to distance myself from my notorious father.
When people asked if I was Patsy O’Connor’s son I would just say no and quickly change the subject.
Then my dad showed up at my apartment late one night a few weeks after I’d moved back to the city. I remember opening the door to find him standing there, his coat slick with rain and a look of impending doom on his face. For a moment, I thought he was there to tell me that my mother had died. No, he was there with news that was, in his mind at least, probably worse.
“The feds are up my ass again,” he said, sitting at the bar that separated my tiny kitchen from my tiny living room while I pulled a bottle of Irish whiskey and two tumblers from the cupboard. He brushed the rain from his buzzed white hair and wiped his hands on his shirt. “Motherfuckers, just won’t leave me alone.”
I stood across from him and poured two fingers of whiskey into his glass. He downed it before I could pour mine. He held out his glass and I filled it to the rim.
“Tell me exactly what’s going on,” I said, shooting back the whiskey and sighing as it burned its way down my throat. I studied his eyes, wondering if this was the pivotal point in our relationship when he actually told me the truth.
“You know about my business,” he said, his voice deep and gravelly. The older he got, the lower he spoke. His voice had become a growl since I’d been away at college.
“Is that a question?” I asked. “Or a statement.”
“You know what I do,” he said, taking a sip of the whiskey and wiping his lips with a knuckle. “You’re not stupid. I know.”
“No, I’m not stupid, dad,” I said. “You’re in the import/export business. The problem is the things you import and export are not exactly legal.”
He shrugged with his entire face. He had aged substantially since I’d been away at school. His pale, pudgy features went up and down.
“We don’t do dope and we don’t do guns,” he said as if I should be proud that he had at least set a bar for his illegal activities. “Mostly counterfeit goods, these days. Knock off designer handbags and shoes coming out of China. Some watches out of Korea. Goddamn fake Rolexes. Look just like the real thing.”
“So, you’re knocking off watches, purses, and shoes,” I said. I held up my glass to toast him. “Glad you’re not into human trafficking or anything really immoral.”
He glared at me from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “Don’t you fucking talk down to me, boy,” he growled.